


A Case of Memory

by JustNeededAUsername



Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Buffy the Vampire Slayer but nothing supernatural - It is not as weird as it might sound, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustNeededAUsername/pseuds/JustNeededAUsername
Summary: A couple of one shots with minor cases for the Baker Street Boys inspired by a mixture of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the cruel reality of crime that we sometimes face. Nothing supernatural, the BTVS episodes just got my imagination going. No knowledge of the episodes needed.
Series: The Case File of Minor Tales [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878043
Kudos: 1





	A Case of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I am hoping to make this a couple of one shots with minor cases for the Baker Street Boys inspired by a mixture of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the cruel reality of crime that we sometimes face (Or maybe I've just watched too much Criminal Minds...). Nothing supernatural, the BTVS episodes just got my imagination going. No knowledge of the episodes needed. (But if you for whatever reason have not watched Buffy, you really should, epic show!)
> 
> Don't know if I how many I will make. It will depend on the mercy of the muses, so I have marked the story as Complete. However, if inspiration strikes, I will add more (Especially since it turns out to be a lot easier to kindly lend a plot instead of having to make one up :P)
> 
> Please enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. of course I do not own Sherlock. If I did, we would not be waiting this damn long for a fifth season!

He woke to the sun burning through his eye lids, making his head pound. It was a dull sensation, going through his skull. God, he wished he could just go back to sleep. He tried to squint his eyes more tightly close to block out the sun, but the only result he got was a slight rustle of clothing and a hopeful; "John?"

Who was John? Who was asking?

And who…

He opened his eyes. At first everything seemed much too bright and a bit fuzzy. Shades of light and white dancing around him, but something dark moving closer to him.

Then his eyes seemed to remember how to focus, and the darkness turned into a human figure. A man. Tall. Suit. Messy curls. A very penetrating stare. And a hoarse, surprisingly deep voice when he once again asked; "John?"

"What?" He answered, not quite connecting that name to anything he knew.

The man's eyes narrowed, and he seemed to study him even closer. That was not a nice feeling.

"Stop that," He croaked, the few words making him swallow to moisten his throat. It felt as if he hadn't used his voice for a while.

"What?" The tall man cocked his head, curiously.

"Staring. Like that," He turned his head, looking away from the piercing gaze and looked at the room instead. Clearly a hospital. Why was he here?

He tried to push himself up, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and exposed laying down underneath the investigation of whoever this other man was.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" He perched his weight on his elbows. His head kept pounding, but he refused to look away from the man, a sudden survival instinct pulling in him; Eyes on the unknown, ready to react if attacked.

"You…" The scrutinizing look was replaced by eyes going wide, "You don't know who I am?"

"Sorry, but… No?" He couldn't help feeling unsure in his reply. The simple question derived other questions, popping up at panicking speed in his mind; Why was he in the hospital? What was the last thing he remembered? Why was everything so blank? And…

"I…" He kept his voice surprisingly levelled, but he noticed that his hands were desperately gripping the bed sheets when he whispered down into his lap, "I don't know who I am either."

-.-.-.-

Oh. Oh. Ohh…

Sherlock was not used to his brain freezing on him, so it took him an abnormal amount of time to recover. Though his medical knowledge was quite extensive, amnesia was not an area he had particularly studied. Had not been relevant for any case. Of course, criminals claimed amnesia all the time, but there was always physical evidence to contradict their claims. Anyway, he was used to deduce information instead of waiting for his counterpart to finally admit the truth.

This was different. He could see the empty stare in John's eyes. No recognition. Nothing to deduce…

How was he supposed to act? Should he tell John who he is? Would that damage him further? Could it really get any worse than this?

"Who am I?" John's voice was louder, more shrilly. Panic starting to show.

Sherlock was ripped from his thoughts as he felt a surging need to reassure his friend, so he grabbed his wrist trying to ease the hand that was desperately grabbing at the sheet underneath. John looked down to his hand but didn't pull away from Sherlock's touch.

"Your name is John Watson. You're a doctor. Not here, in this hospital, but in a clinic. Before that, you were in the army…," _Oh, come on Sherlock. You can do better than this!?_ Starting to lay out the man's curriculum vitae was hardly relevant right now, was it? He changed strategy, "But what you really need to know is… My name is Sherlock Holmes. And I… I'm… your friend."

-.-.-.-

John was surprised by the sudden softness in the man – _Sherlock (What kind of name was that?)_. At first, he had seemed so calculating, making John's insides squirm under his gaze. Now he seemed almost caring, though very insecure in the role.

Next, he tried turning over this name – _his name_ – in his head. John Watson. John. Watson. Didn't ring a bell. But it had a nice ring to it. Simple, but firm. Good.

He started relaxing a bit, slowly releasing the crumbled sheets.

Doctor. _And_ soldier. He could handle this, right? Sounded like he could. Panic surely wouldn't handle anything.

"So, Sherlock," John thought the name rolled funnily in his mouth, "Why I am in the hospital? Though I guess the lack of memory might be a factor?"

-.-.-.-

Sherlock couldn't help the small sprout of relief blooming in his chest. John didn't remember him, or himself, but he was still John. He _spoke_ like John. And for a reason he had yet to phantom, even when John had his memory; He trusted him almost instantly.

"We were running through an alley. You slipped on some ice and hit your head on the pavement."

"That would explain the headache," John lifted a hand to the back of his head, feeling a bump and what must be a few stitches.

"Apparently you must have hit your head just right. Normally, you would just have walked away with a bump and maybe a small concussion."

John looked to the window, realising that the reason that the sun was shining so brightly, was because the effect was amplified by the powdery layer of snow everywhere. Out loud, he wondered. "You a doctor too?"

"No," Sherlock couldn't help the smirk forming on his face, "I'm a consulting detective. Meaning I do have some medical knowledge, though mostly forensic."

"Consulting detective? Never heard about that before… Well, I guess I probably have, but…"

"I consult on criminal cases for Scotland Yard, assisting when they cannot solve the cases themselves… Which is quite often."

"So, not a cop?"

"Not a cop."

"But… The police don't consult armatures?"

Sherlock smiled at this; "I've convinced you of the contrary before. And many times since."

"I bet," The more John was talking to Sherlock, the more he got the feeling that he really did know him. At least, he was intriguing. And he seemed very observant and clever. Somehow, the whole thing about 'consulting detective' even seemed possible; "So, why were we running down a slippery alley?"

"We were hunting a group of criminals orchestrating illegal gambling around the city, resulting in some petty killings within the group. Thieves are not the best at sharing loot and credit for their success. We normally deal with more exiting crimes, lovely bizarre murders, but I was getting bored, so you insisted we help Lestrade," Sherlock's voice danced from existed when talking about 'lovely bizarre murders' to annoyed when mentioning helping Lestrade.

John gaped at him for a moment. Two. Three. Then; "I was hunting criminals too? Sounds a bit dangerous, doesn't it? And murders? Am I a coroner? But why would I be hunting…? And what do you mean bored? And-and... Who's Lestrade?"

John's rambling took Sherlock by surprise. _This_ did not sound like John. John loved the hunt. The danger. It shouldn't come as such a surprise that he would be in on the hunt.

Except…

John didn't remember being a doctor, or a soldier. He was like a blank canvas, not yet coloured by his experiences of life. No pain, no violence, no death. No adrenaline addiction.

"Uhm…" Sherlock once again willed his brain into action, "One, yes, you were also hunting criminals. Two, yes, it is occasionally dangerous. Three, yes, murders. Four, no, you are not a coroner, but a surgeon, though today you work as a general practitioner. Five, you were hunting the criminals with me because you enjoy it and you blog about our adventures, as you like to call them. Six, by bored I mean that if I do not receive the necessary stimulus for my brain, I become quite… creative in creating my own stimulus, which you most often strongly disagree with. And seven, Lestrade is a DI in the homicide division of Scotland Yard, and he often needs my help for cases, thus providing the beforementioned needed stimulus."

John squinted his eyes at him before exclaiming; "What!?"

"Oh goodness, you don't remember how much I hate repeating myself…"

"That sounds insane! You're out of your bloody mind!" John was sitting straight up in bed now, headache forgotten. This had quickly gone from intriguing to sounding absolutely ridiculous. Though he did not remember himself, this did not sound like anything a normal human being would do. And Sherlock sounded more and more… Robotic?

Before Sherlock could answer, a nurse entered the room, summoned by the loud voice of John; "What is going on in here?"

She rushed to John's side, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder; "Mr. Holmes, you should not excite Dr Watson unnecessarily."

Sherlock didn't hear the exact words, though it was easy to guess from her demeanour. He was more than familiar with that scolding look she was giving him.

He was, however, not used to John looking at him like this. Yes, John would yell at him, look at him in disbelieve, anger, upset, shock, all and more. But he never actually looked at him as if he was insane. Even when Moriarty had made the world believe that Sherlock was a fake, John might have had fleeting moments of doubt, but he had still believed in him.

That was gone. Erased from the canvas as well as everything else.

The realisation settled heavily in Sherlock's chest.

All he could do at this moment, was rise from his chair and leave the room.

-.-.-.-

Sherlock paced the halls in the hospital wing. First floor, second floor, third, forth, third, second, first. The halls seemed endless and yet not long enough for him to shake the _feeling_ that John's look had installed in him. It kept creeping up and down his spine, clenching his stomach and tickling his heart to make it beat a bit harder.

Before he could find a more effective outlet for the snake strangling his insides, he ran into Lestrade, on his way to see John.

"Hey Sherlock," Lestrade smiled tensely at Sherlock, "How's he doing?"

"He has amnesia," Sherlock stated shortly, his voice not giving away his inner turmoil.

"Amnesia? Jesus… How bad?"

"It would appear that his procedural memory is intact, but his declarative memory is completely gone."

Lestrade looked irritated at the detective and made a sweeping gesture to underline his word; "Meaning?"

"He has completely forgotten his past but remembers motor skills, how to do things," Sherlock explained without his usual haughtiness, just citing his inner encyclopaedia.

"Oh God, that's awful" Lestrade dragged a hand down his face.

For a moment, they just stood in silence. Sherlock rolled on his feet, impatient and still feeling the need to somehow evaporate the swirling emotions in him. Lestrade noticed; "How are you doing?"

"Me? I didn't slip and hit my head," Sherlock frowned at the DI.

"Not what I meant, Sherlock. You seem a bit shaken. How do you feel about this?"

"Most cases of amnesia are temporary. This will most likely be the same-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade bit him off, "I didn't ask for the facts. I ask for how you _feel_."

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped.

He immediately regretted his outburst and avoided Lestrade's eyes. But apparently that did not make the DI go away, and even though he didn't verbally prompt Sherlock to continue, the heavy atmosphere did; "He does not remember anything. Who he is. Who I am. What… What we do. Why we do it. He believes me to be quite mad."

They stared at each other for a moment, before Lestrade couldn't keep a smile from his face. When Sherlock tried to turn away, feeling ridiculed, Lestrade caught his arm and turned him back around; "No-no-no-no. Listen, Sherlock, hear me out. You and John far from live an ordinary life. Try to put yourself in his place. Imagine waking up without any of your history, being told that you do what you do. Would you believe it?"

Sherlock mulled it over. It was difficult to imagine. Every time he tried, he kept drawing on some past experience, some case where so-called amnesia had been present in some form. He had always been able to deduce facts about people, so wouldn't he be able to deduce himself? But even deductions were based on experience. He was not born with the connections between evidence and facts. He had not understood what he had observed as a child. He had had to perform countless experiments to test his theories, observed every person he had ever met and how their actions left evidence on their persona. Without said experiments to support his observations, what would he see in the mirror? And would he believe the truth if John had told him? Except, he wouldn't know John... He finally concluded; "I guess, it would take a bit more than the word of a perceived stranger to convince me."

Lestrade grabbed his shoulder affectionately, shaking it slightly – Sherlock would never admit that he secretly appreciated the gesture and the approval that it symbolized from the DI – and then started guiding them towards John's room; "Let's go support the good doctor, eh?"

-.-.-.-

Lestrade was a welcome buffer between the flatmates and helped breaking the awkward atmosphere when Sherlock had entered again. Maybe John was relieved that not everyone who knew him were as… abnormal as Sherlock.

Sherlock was surprised at how easily Lestrade handled the situation. The DI calmly explained their relation, making a few jokes on Sherlock's behalf which he couldn't find it in himself to mind given the current situation.

But he couldn't stay long, having to go back to work. Sherlock ignored the nervous pang at seeing Lestrade and his easy-going approach leave. Lestrade must have sensed this, as he gave the detective's shoulder yet another comforting squeeze before stepping outside.

And then John smiled at him.

"What?" Sherlock had to know what that meant, no longer trusting his usual facial-expressions-of-John-catalogue in his mind palace.

John looked thoughtfully after Lestrade – Greg – and mused about how he had acted around Sherlock and himself. Definitely more normal, and clearly caring for the detective. Now that he had had a small break, he could understand that this was not easy for anyone else either, and especially someone as Sherlock must find it difficult to handle. The previous 'robotic' demeanour now seemed more autistic. John drew in a breath before answering; "Well, you might be a nutter. But apparently, so is the rest of us. Maybe you have to be a bit crazy to be in this line of work?"

"Well, normal is boring."

John laughed immediately and wholeheartedly at the prompt reply, and Sherlock felt a just as immediate release of the tension in his chest, so he couldn't help but to laugh along with the doctor.

Finally feeling welcome again, he sat back down in the chair by the bed.

John looked over at him, and slowly his laugh turned to a tight smile, and he avoided Sherlock's eyes.

"John?" Sherlock looked him over, detecting sadness in the doctor's eyes. Maybe he shouldn't have sat down yet?

"It's nothing…" John tried to wave it off, unsuccessfully.

Sherlock prompted; "John. Tell me."

A deep breath and then John asked; "Shouldn't my family be here? I mean…" He turned his head away from Sherlock, as if hiding half his face made it easier to continue, "I'm admitted to the hospital. Shouldn't they be here, visiting? Don't I have a family?"

Sherlock sat silent for a moment. Opened his mouth, then closed it again. They had never discussed John's family relations despite Sherlock's deductions about Harriet. Sherlock had his theories, of course, but not anything he had had confirmed by John. Instead, he carefully stated; "Yes, you have family, but you are not very close. The closest you have is a sister, but you have your ups and downs. I'm afraid you are in a 'down' right now, so I did not think to call her. I believe that you consider your friends – Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly... Me - your family. And you have many more friends than that, John."

John stared into nothing for a moment before turning to Sherlock, a small smile to his face; "Well, sounds pretty good to me."

Sherlock returned the smile, happy that once again, his doctor seemed to accept him so surprisingly easily.

-.-.-.-

The doctors soon allowed John to go home, hoping that familiar settings could help his memory recover faster.

Sherlock kept a watchful eye on John on the entire trip home, but he seemed surprisingly confident and calm for the unusual situation. _The instincts of the soldier_. Even if John did not remember, some part of him analysed the situation and deemed it as safe and he behaved accordingly.

When they arrived at 221B, Sherlock scrutinised John's face for recognition of their front door, but John seemed to study the door, taking it in as if for the first time.

Sherlock ignored the disappointment.

As soon as they opened the front door, the door to 221A swung open and Mrs. Hudson fluttered out to meet them.

"Oh, John! Are you alright?" She opened her arms to hug him, but John instinctively backed away. Mrs. Hudson's face fell by the abnormal reaction. Not even Sherlock avoided her hugs.

Sherlock stepped forward, standing with Mrs. Hudson on his right and John on his left; "Mrs. Hudson, John is currently suffering from a case of amnesia. He has no recollection of you or me. John, this is Mrs. Hudson, our landlady. She likes to hug."

Mrs. Hudson held her hands to her chest; "Oh John, how awful. Are you alright? I mean, besides the memory thing?"

John seemed to warm up to the woman, maybe also remembering Sherlock mentioning her name as one of his friends-become-family. He laughed awkwardly and answered; "Well, I guess I'm alright. Meeting a lot of new people, for sure."

"Well, just know that you have many people who care about you and will take care of you. Even Sherlock here, no matter how he might try to delude himself," This earned the kind lady a stabbing look from the detective, "Now, why don't you go upstairs and reacquaint yourself with the apartment and I will bring up a cuppa and some biscuits."

She swiftly disappeared into 221A before they could answer, leaving an amused doctor and a slightly embarrassed detective. John smiled at Sherlock; "I think I like her."

-.-.-.-

Mrs. Hudson was an even better buffer than Lestrade. The woman never shuts up. She praised John, telling him of all his qualities in ways that Sherlock never could. However, most of that praise was on Sherlock's expense. " _Oh, Sherlock flies into a tantrum every now and then, but you are so lovely patient. Must be the doctor in you_ " and " _You might want to be a bit careful when opening the fridge. Sherlock keeps some experiments in there, but as a doctor and soldier you have probably seen worse. Still not very hygienic though…_ " John had frowned at that last comment, and Sherlock had quickly shoved their landlady out the door before John could ask any questions.

But that didn't seem to discourage John, "What was that about the fridge?"

"Oh, when working on cases, I sometimes test a theory requiring refrigeration," Sherlock made a mental note that maybe he should empty a few things out of the fridge. Just to not scare John away.

"Oh-kay…" John sent the fridge a suspicious look before getting up from the kitchen table, "Well, I think I'll go get a shower. Want to get that hospital smell off my skin. Can't believe I actually work in that sanitisation stench."

He stood looking around, lost, before Sherlock caught on and showed him to his room and en suite bathroom.

Sherlock went back down to the living room and collapsed on the couch. He didn't understand why this situation was so draining. John was in no way demanding. He asked some questions. Reasonable questions. He kept his calm. Almost too calm. Just like John always was, just a bit more naïve than usual.

Still, it was grinding on his nerves. He was not used to care, to act caringly, to focus all of his mind on someone else. It was like being on a case, but instead of adding energy and stimulation, it was draining it.

But before he could have a moment to collect himself, steps sounded from the stairs. Sherlock, alarmed by John's obviously too quick return to have had a shower, stood up straight to face the doctor as he entered the living room.

John was still in his jeans but had removed his jumper and was now clenching it in his hands in front of his chest. He still seemed calm, but his eyes were avoiding Sherlock's and he faltered in expressing why he had descended the stairs.

However, it was limited what John could have to ask about just from taking off his shirt, so Sherlock calmly stated; "That is a scar from a bullet wound. As mentioned earlier, you were once in the army. You were an army doctor, to be more precise. You were shot and subsequently discharged."

John stood, mouth hanging slightly open with this new information. The scar had been a bit of a surprise, as it was not neatly healed and spread more than he would have imagined a bullet wound to do. And even more so when it appeared on both his front and back.

The men stood staring at each other before John regained the ability to speak; "Do you know how?"

"You have never relayed the story to me. I believe that you for an illogical, sentimental reason is ashamed of being discharged, maybe due to the limp and the tremor you experienced right aft-" Sherlock stopped himself as John turned slightly pale. He took a deep breath; "You do not remember this, John, but I am brutally honest and mostly unaware of the impact said honesty sometimes have on the people around me. However, that also means that you can trust me when I say that you have nothing to be ashamed of. From what I am able to deduce from your scar, you were shot when kneeling, probably tending to a wounded fellow soldier. You were shot performing your duty. You were injured, but you survived, and today you help put the worst criminals in London behind bars. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of."

John had closed his mouth and stared in awe as Sherlock rambled his deduction. By the end, a small smile was playing on his face, clearly moved by the words.

"Alright. Sounds okay then," He gave a thankful nod to Sherlock and started to turn back towards the stairs when he suddenly turned back with a tight but determined expression to his face; "Just be clear, we are just friends, right?"

Sherlock frowned, not quite understanding the question; "Yes?"

"Good," John looked relieved, "Cause you're… nice, and all, but I'm just not feeling it, I mean, the nurse was more, erhm... It's just the way you speak, sometimes, so highly of me, I-… You must be a very good friend."

John left before Sherlock could respond to that. In the end, Sherlock responded with a huffed smiled. Typical John, worrying about his sexuality in a situation like this.

Then John's final words sunk in, and Sherlock felt a twitch of guilt for some of the things he had put John through in their time together – _Note to self,_ _do not_ _mention Baskerville_ -, but mostly he felt pride in receiving this praise from his friend, even when he didn't remember him.

Sherlock quickly went to empty the fridge of some non-food related articles.

-.-.-.-

Lestrade came to visit the following day. He was happy to find that John had not run away screaming; "Glad to see you in good spirits, John."

"Well, fretting about it isn't going to change anything, right?" John smiled and went to prepare three cups of tea.

Lestrade leant close to Sherlock and whispered with a smile; "Somethings never change, eh?"

Sherlock huffed to hide his own smile; "What brings you here, Lestrade?"

"It's about the illegal gambling-"

"Oh, not this again…" Sherlock grumbled.

"-There was another killing last night of a member of the group. I was hoping that you could take a look at some pictures, maybe give us something more to work with," Lestrade placed a folder in front of Sherlock.

John came in and handed Lestrade a cup, which the DI accepted gratefully.

"So, a case?" The doctor asked.

"Yes, actually the one you and Sherlock were working on when, er…"

"When I lost my memory," John finished with a small smile before looking at Sherlock, who were perusing the pictures, "So what exactly is it he does for you?"

"Well, he calls it 'the art of deduction'. He looks at things and can read stuff from what he sees."

"How often must I say it, Lestrade, I do not 'see, I observe," Sherlock grumbled and got up from his seat and showed John one of the pictures, "For instance, do you see the callouses on the body's left hand, on the thumb, index finger and middle finger? Not present on the right hand. Because he is lefthanded. It also indicates that he often holes a pen which is abnormal in these days with everyone using computers instead. But if you combine it with the lead traces from a lead pencil on his sleeve – downside of being lefthanded – and the smears on his fingertips, he did not write, the drew. He used his fingers to smear the lead to create shadow."

John gaped at the picture before looking up at Sherlock; "That… is brilliant!"

Sherlock beamed at his friend.

"Yes, very nice, but do you have something more… case related?" Lestrade dared asking.

Sherlock shot daggers at him; "Actually, it, among other things, suggests you should focus your investigation in Camden."

"Camden? How do-"

"Oh, I'm sure you will figure it out," Sherlock took the half empty cup from Lestrade's hands and started pushing the man towards the door, "Afterall, you keep claiming that your so called trained officers are all very capable, so why not let them do their job for once?"

The door slammed behind the protesting DI and Sherlock turned back to the doctor, who was sending him a familiar, but more careful than normal scowl; "Sherlock, that was not very nice-"

Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt, but John raised his voice to speak over him; "-But I get that he seemed to take you a bit for granted just now."

Sherlock was once again taken aback by John's devotion to him, based on barely 24 hours of remembering him. He did, however, also know that these 24 hours were not entirely representative of his true nature, so he found himself almost excusing Lestrade; "I mentioned yesterday that Lestrade brings these cases to me, on my request. Well, I ask for exiting cases, but his definition of exiting is sometimes quite different from mine."

John blinked and then translated; "So, you want these cases, but only on your terms, and if they do not meet these terms, you act like a spoiled brat?"

Sherlock rolled on his feet, exited, but still pouting; "Well, that is probably how you would put it."

John smiled; "Alright then. Do we have any biscuits for the tea?"

-.-.-.-

In the following days, John slowly started to remember things. As with most cases of amnesia, he remembered his oldest memories first; His childhood home, his parents and his sister.

It gave Sherlock a new insight into John's past. When John remembered something, he would often burst it out in sheer relief of remembering something. Though Sherlock had deduced many of the things – very standard English upbringing -, it was refreshing that John was so open about the things that Sherlock normally had to drag out of him. It gave a new level of details and confirmation to his deductions which could come in handy later.

However, as John's memories expanded to his early teenage years, he became less and less inclined to share. Instead, he would stare into nothingness when a new memory was triggered or retire to his room.

It was clear that something had changed in his teenage years, and Sherlock attributed this to a change in John's father and sister after the loss of his mother. What was once a standard upbringing had become cold, distant and affected by the influence of alcohol.

Luckily, it was not all bad. John also remembered going out with his friends, starting playing rugby, his first real girlfriend, his first car and the shameful crashing of said car three months later. All of which he still shared, but more matter-of-factly than how he had emotionally relayed the memories from his childhood.

It was clearly the point in life where John had decided to deal with his problems and emotions on his own, and he started acting more like his normal self instead of the happy, naive, trusting _boy_ that he had been since his amnesia.

Despite appreciating John's frank and open attitude, Sherlock recognised his friend more in the adolescent man.

This only made him realise how impatient he was becoming for John to remember him. To have his doctor back. To have someone to run his thoughts by. To have someone to bring on cases again. Someone to challenge him instead of just being impressed with his every whim. Sure, normal-John was often impressed as well, but amnesia-John didn't understand the complexity and impact his whims could have, didn't _remember_. Nothing was _Sherlock-be-nice_ , nothing was _Sherlock-shut-up_ and nothing was _bit-not-good_.

Something changed once again when John started remembering medical school. It must have helped him regain some confidence and had given him something productive to channel his frustrations from his teenage years into. Further, it allowed him to express his softer, caring side that he had had to bury in the estranged childhood home.

It also brought a practical aspect back in 221B, as the doctor was now back, and Sherlock sighed with relief when John again could understand the scientific terms he threw around, and even more when he started scolding Sherlock for some of the experiments he set up in the kitchen.

-.-.-.-

But then Afghanistan happened. Again.

Even though Sherlock had told him that he was an army doctor, and John had made some comments about not looking forward to remembering this part, it had not been enough to prepare the doctor for the actual memories.

Sherlock had sat in his chair, long lost in his mind palace, when a shout from upstairs roused him from his musings. It took him a moment to identify the sound, as it had been a long while since John had awoken him due to a nightmare.

He immediately ran upstairs, finding John sitting in his bed, clenching his duvet in his hands and breathing heavily.

The haunted look was something Sherlock had only seen once before. He had only approached John the first time this had happened, curiosity taking over, first thinking John was attacked by one of Sherlock's criminal acquaintances. John had been embarrassed and had thrown Sherlock out. Since then, Sherlock had only reacted by playing his violin when a nightmare occurred and ignoring it the following morning.

Now, however, John didn't throw him out. He looked to him, scared, for guidance.

Sherlock tentatively sat down on the bed, his back to John. God, he couldn't wait for John to fully be himself again so he wouldn't end up in these situations anymore. But he could even less leave John to deal with this alone.

"We've never talked about your nightmares," Sherlock started talking to the faraway wall, "All I can tell you is that it became better after you moved in here. Our line of work gives you an outlet, of sorts."

_No need to mention the addiction to danger, as it was soon to come back on its own. Crossing of bridges and all that._

Sherlock fumbled with the bottom of his suit jacket. How was he to comment on dreams he didn't know, derived from a situation and environment he had no experience with.

John's breathing evened out. Sherlock was about to get up and leave, feeling that there was nothing more that he could do or say, despite the few words already spoken.

"Three."

Sherlock almost turned around at the whispered number, but stopped himself, awaiting John to elaborate.

"I've just started remembering the war. And I've already lost three men on the table," John's voice was low and hoarse.

"You didn't lose them," Sherlock quickly interfered, "You didn't enlist them. You didn't send them in the line of fire. You didn't wound them. You, on the other hand, tried to save their lives. And you have saved many lives. But you are but human. By definition, perfection is out of your reach."

John took a deep breath behind him, slightly shaking, before answering in a half laugh; "You seem to be pretty close, though. The way you have handled this whole situation. The way you just handled this. The cases you solve. Yeah, you are a bit of a git sometimes, but… You're never wrong."

Sherlock huffed out a dry laugh himself; "You simply do not remember my imperfections or errors. Yet."

A different heavy air settled in the room. John didn't ask. Sherlock didn't want to tell. Instead he stood up and left.

-.-.-.-

Per usual fashion, John and Sherlock didn't mention the nightmares again, and Sherlock went back to playing his violin when hearing John tossing in his bed.

They were getting so close. Sherlock couldn't contain his excitement anymore. Except, he was slightly… _not nervous_ … about how John was going to react when he finally did remember.

Things got closer and closer to normal, and Sherlock found himself returning more to his normal self, not sheltering John from his usual personality or quirks, now that John had more of his own less flattering traits back, among others his unnatural curiosity for Sherlock's experiments and cases.

But John was still a stranger in his own home, not remembering living there, so he seemed to step lightly, and barely questioned Sherlock's more questionable uses of the kitchen.

Therefore, Sherlock was a bit surprised at the sudden outburst from the kitchen.

"There's a skinned arm in the fridge!"

"Yes," Sherlock walked up to John, sensing the panic in his voice.

"An arm!" John was almost hysteric.

"It's for a case," Sherlock started to explain, frowning at John for his currently-not-normal-but-usually-normal reaction. This shouldn't feel so good.

"In the fridge?! In the bloody fridge!? You expect me to believe that I've accepted this!? Its right there, on the shelf, nothing between the arm and the fridge!" John took a step towards Sherlock, an angry finger pointing between the detective's chest and the closed refrigerator.

Sherlock couldn't hide his excitement at finally being told off by the captain, which only seemed to fuel John's anger more; "It is of great legal importance, a murderer might walk free-"

"How can contaminating our food be of legal importance?!" John dragged a hand down his face and sighed; "Oh my god, this is almost as bad as the head. No! At least the head was on a plate!"

Sherlock was about to interfere when the ramifications of John's words hit him, and he barely had breath to stammer out; "You remember the head?"

John stopped his pacing in the kitchen, and turned back to Sherlock, his eyes going wide; "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Yes, I remember! Your saliva experiment, it was absolutely disgusting!"

Despite John's words, his smile became broader and broader the more he said, and his eyes shone with recognition. Sherlock's face mirrored John's excitement. Finally, John stepped up and grabbed the detective into a tight embrace.

Sherlock allowed it, and hugged back, decisively not being moved by John repeatedly whispering; "I remember you. I remember. I remember."

The doctor pulled back as abruptly as he had started the hug, instead grabbing the detective's shoulders and looking at him seriously; "You. You have been the best mate during all of this. So patient. And I know – _Now_ I know how difficult that is for you. Thank you, Sherlock. Really. Thank you. But that arm is going in the bloody bin and you are buying a new fridge, so help me God!"

For once, Sherlock complied without making a fuss about it.

-.-.-.-

Only two days later, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place, when John burst into the living room, a questioning look on his face.

Sherlock felt a quick pang, afraid that John had recalled something unpleasant and they were about to have yet another uncomfortable sentimental conversation. He had truly hoped that they were done with these, now that John remembered close to everything.

Therefore, he could not hide his relieved smile when John instead asked; "Did Lestrade ever catch that illegal gambling gang?"

"No."

"Huh," John looked away for a moment, looking contemplating, before returning his look to Sherlock; "I'm not back on clinic duty until Monday."

"Really?" Sherlock fished, amused.

John smiled widely at him; "Seems like someone has gotten lazy these past few weeks" John grabbed the long coat and scarf from the coat hook and threw it at the smiling detective; "Come on, Sherlock. Let's get back in the game."

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the BTVS episode Tabula Rasa. It would have been truer to the episode if they both had lost their memory, but I tried to keep it a bit more realistic and easier to explain/wrap up. It is probably not as 'light' as I had hoped for when I finished the previous chapter, but definitely on the softer side by comparison. It also led to a bit more 'bromance', which I actually really enjoyed writing, though it probably put Sherlock a bit out of character.
> 
> If it should not already be obvious, I have absolutely no medical background to support the description of the amnesia. I just googled some fancy words and joggled them in here.
> 
> The title is kindly borrowed and rewritten from the original Sherlock Homes short story A Case of Identity.
> 
> I still have a couple of lose ideas for these one-shots, but they are very fluffy, so it will probably take some time if any more stories are added.


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